Charlotte glanced at her companions.
And now there will be five more.
The leader’s first words confirmed her fears.
“Maleficos non patieris vivere.”
Charlotte recognized the admonishment from the Book of Exodus.
Suffer not a witch to live.
The man continued in English, though his accent sounded Spanish. “Xénese must never be,” he intoned. “It is an abomination, born of sorcery and filth.”
Charlotte frowned.
How did he know what we’re attempting this night?
Still, the mystery would have to wait. Pistols were leveled intently at the group as two men carried forward a pair of five-gallon tanks. She read the lettering on the side: Querosene. She didn’t need to be fluent in Portuguese to recognize the content, especially after the men upended the tanks and oily fuel flooded across the floor of the confined space.
The smell of kerosene quickly grew suffocating.
Coughing, Charlotte shared a look with the other terrified women. After working in tandem for the past six years, they knew each other. No words were needed. They were not tied to wooden stakes. If this was their end, these particular witches would die fighting.
Better a bullet than the flame.
She sneered at the leader. “Suffer this, asshole!”
The five women splashed through the pool of kerosene and dove into the gathering of men. Pistols fired, explosively loud in the confined space. Charlotte felt rounds pelt into her, but her momentum still carried her to the leader. She lunged and clawed at his face, gouging her nails deep into his flesh, tearing down his cheek. She tore his blindfold free and saw only fury in his exposed eyes.
He dropped the accursed book and shoved her away. She landed on the stone floor at the edge of the pool of kerosene. Propped up on one arm, she glanced across the room in horror at the other four women sprawled and unmoving on the floor, their blood mixing with the oil.
Weakening rapidly, she slumped to the floor herself.
The leader swore and spat orders in Spanish.
A half-dozen Molotov cocktails were removed from robes and quickly lit.
Charlotte ignored them as her body grew cold, draining any fear of the coming heat. She stared back into the room, where motion drew her fading eyes. On the computer screen, the Bruxas pentagram spun rapidly, far faster than before, as if agitated by all that had transpired.
Designed by the author
Mystified, she stared at the blurring image.
Was Mara trying to signal her somehow?
Molotov cocktails were tossed into the room, shattering against the walls. Flames splashed high. Heat washed over her.
Still, she stared into the heart of the fire.
The symbol on the screen spun faster for another breath—then stopped abruptly. But the center could no longer hold. Fragments broke loose and scattered away.
Designed by the author
The leader stepped closer to her prone form, likely studying the same mystery. Though she could not see his face from where she lay on the floor, she sensed his bewilderment. All that remained of the pentagram were two prongs of the star, like the horns of a devil.
Designed by the author
As if recognizing the same, the man stiffened, clearly offended. He stumbled back, an arm lifted. He shouted in Spanish, “Des . . . destroy the computadora!”
But it was already too late. The image changed one final time, a full quarter turn.
Designed by the author
Pistols cracked, and bullets pierced the fire. The computer screen shattered and went dark. Charlotte slumped and followed that darkness, searching for the promised light at the end, praying for Mara’s safety.
Still, one image accompanied her into the depths. It shone brightly in her mind’s eye. It was the last image on the screen. The circle around the pentagram had vanished, leaving only a new symbol that grew to fill the monitor before it shattered.
Designed by the author
It looked like a Greek letter.
Sigma.
She didn’t know what it meant, but the purposefulness of it gave her hope as she died.
Hope for the world.
First
Ghost in the Machine
1
December 24, 9:06 P.M. EST
Silver Spring, Maryland
As the coin spun through the air, Commander Grayson Pierce felt a growing sense of dread. He sat on a stool next to his best friend, Monk Kokkalis, who had tossed the quarter high into the air above the mahogany bar.
Fellow patrons of the Quarry House Tavern gathered around them, drunk, rowdy, and loud, awaiting the fall of the coin. From across the tavern, a small band knocked out a rockabilly version of “The Little Drummer Boy.” The heavy thud of the bass drum reverberated through his ribs, adding to his tension.
“Heads!” Monk called out as the quarter flashed brightly in the dim light.
It was the thirteenth toss of a coin.
Like the other twelve times, the quarter landed flat on the flesh of Monk’s palm. The silhouette of George Washington gleamed for all to see.
“Heads it is!” Monk acknowledged, his voice slurring at the edges.
A mix of groans and cheers rose from the crowd, depending on whether they had bet with or against Monk. For the thirteenth time in a row, his friend had tossed and called out correctly how the coin would land. Sometimes head, sometimes tail. With each successful toss, Monk and Gray were rewarded with a free refill.
The barkeep ducked under the tavern’s mascot—a mounted boar’s head that currently sported a red Santa’s hat—and carried over a pitcher of Guinness.
As the dark beer rose in their mugs, a bull of a man shoved between Gray and Monk, almost knocking Gray off his stool. The guy’s breath reeked of whiskey and grease. “It’s a trick . . . a fuckin’ trick. He’s using a fake quarter.”
The man snatched the coin from Monk, inspecting it with bleary eyes.
Another patron—clearly a friend of the accuser—tried to pull him away. They were a matched pair: late twenties, same blazers with the sleeves pushed up, same trimmed haircut. Lobbyists—maybe lawyers—Gray assessed. Either way, they all but had FORMER FRAT BROS stamped on their foreheads.
“C’mon, Bryce,” the less drunk of the pair cajoled. “Guy’s used a half dozen different quarters. Even a nickel once. Can’t be a trick coin.”
“Fuck that. He’s a con artist.”
In an attempt to free himself of his friend’s restraining grip, Bryce lost his drunken footing. As he flailed, an elbow swung toward Gray’s face.
He leaned back in time and felt the breeze of the limb across his nose. The wild arm struck the side of a passing waitress encumbered with a tray balanced on her shoulder. Glasses and plates and food—mostly tater tots and french fries—went flying.
Gray sprang up and caught the young woman around the waist. He kept her upright and shielded her from the shatter of glasses striking the bar.
Monk was already on his feet and stepped chest-to-chest with the drunken man. “Back off, bub, or else.”
“Or else what?” Bryce demanded. He was plainly not intimidated, especially as Monk’s shaved head reached only as high as the man’s shoulder.
Monk had to crane his neck to glare at the other. It also didn’t help that the thick woolen sweater he wore made Monk look pudgy, hiding the solid physique honed by years in the Green Berets. Of course, the jaunty Christmas tree embroidered on the garment’s front—a gift from his wife, Kat—certainly was not going to persuade Bryce to back down.
Recognizing the escalating tension, Gray let loose the woman in his arm. “Are you okay?”
She nodded as she backed away from the standoff. “Yeah, thanks.”
The barkeep leaned forward and pointed toward the exit. “Take it outside, guys.”
By now, more of Bryce’s pack of bros crowded around the pair, ready to back up their companion.
Great.
Gray reached past Bryce to extract Monk from the situation. “Let’s get out of here.”
Before he could reach his friend, someone pushed Gray from behind. Likely one of the pack who believed Gray was trying to grab their friend. He collided into Bryce, which was like poking an already irate bull.
Bryce bellowed and swung a roundhouse at Monk’s jaw.
Monk dodged and caught the man’s fist in his hand, stopping it in midair.
Bryce sneered, his shoulders bunching with gym-honed muscles, ready to yank his arm free. Then Monk squeezed. The man’s sneer of contempt turned into a grimace of pain.
Monk tightened his fingers, driving Bryce to one knee. Monk’s hand was actually a prosthesis, engineered with the latest military tech. Nearly indistinguishable from the real thing, it could easily crush walnuts in its grasp—or, in this case, the bones of a drunken lout.
Down on the floor, it was now Bryce’s turn to crane his neck to stare at the other.